“Never,” I said, and stood up to face him. “Real life’s so much better than Internet life.”
He agreed with a kiss, a long one, sweet and cool, hot in ways that had nothing at all to do with body temperature, although his mouth took on heat from mine the longer they touched. I loved that, seeing the effect I had on him. I could change him, at least briefly; sometimes, when I woke up in bed with him, my body heat had transferred to him so effectively that he felt alive again. He loved that, too. It made him feel connected, alive, and . . . human.
“Bed,” he said, in a whisper that vibrated against my skin. “You and me. Now, Mrs. Glass.”
“Right now,” I agreed.
And I left all the dark rides behind for something much wilder and better.
If you’re smart . . . you will, too.
PITCH-BLACK BLUES
Dedicated to Jennifer Stangret for her support of the Morganville digital series Kickstarter
Another brand-new offering!
Jennifer, bless her, wanted a Shane/Myrnin story as part of her Kickstarter contribution, and I was happy to oblige. So here is Shane, and Myrnin, and a tie-in to a story earlier in this collection: “Nothing like an Angel.” If you read them back-to-back, you’ll see why I say that; events in this particular story feed into events in that one, though it might not be obvious without a closer look. We get graveyards, corpses, mysterious alchemical machines, time travel (maybe), and the payoff on a romance that I built between Bitter Blood and Daylighters. This story occurs after the end of the series, so you may think of it as an epilogue of sorts.
No matter how many times I destroy Myrnin’s lab, I always want to rebuild it and bring it back as a setting, because it so perfectly reflects the state of the inside of his mind. “Pitch-black” refers to many things in this story, not the least of which is the state of Myrnin’s mind at various times in his history.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I mean, I’m relatively nice to old ladies. I’ve never been mean to animals. Sure, I’ve had my occasional dives into punk-ass behavior, but who doesn’t sometime in his life? Hey, I’m only twenty. It isn’t like I can’t learn better.
Which is why this was so damn unfair. “Why me, God?” I muttered, as I shoveled another heavy load of dirt out of the hole in the graveyard. “Why am I the one who always gets the crap jobs?”
“Well,” my supervisor said as he sat on a tombstone, sipping on what looked like a Bloody Mary, and which almost certainly had a whole lot more blood in it than most drinks, never mind the ornamental celery. Come to think of it, it might have had someone named Mary in it. “I didn’t know you were a serious student of philosophy. That gladdens my heart. However, your question does confuse me. Expound, please.”
“It was rhetorical,” I shot back. The hole was up to my neck, but I could still glare out of it at him as I leaned my weight on the shovel and dug it into the damp, wormy soil. “And I don’t know shit about philosophy.”
“So much clearer now. However, I hope you realize that using the word rhetorical means you are also a student of philosophy, even if ill taught.” He saluted me with the drink. In honor of the refreshment, I guessed, he’d put on a loud Hawaiian shirt and board shorts, which at least went together, though where he’d found the Liberace-quality sunglasses I had no idea. Also, I wondered if I should clue him in that the flip-flops he was wearing were meant for girls. Probably not.
If you’re wondering why I was in the graveyard doing minion work for Myrnin the Crazy Vampire, well.
So was I.
Hi, my name is Shane Collins, and I hate vampires. I have ever since I was old enough to understand that (a) there were vampires in Morganville, Texas, and (b) they were the boss of me, no matter what I wanted. My goal was to be a fearless badass vampire hunter, and sometimes I have been that, but the reality that I’ve come to reluctantly accept is that not all vamps are terrible people. Selfish, sure. Annoying, definitely. But I can’t support my original stake-’em-all theory anymore, because—well, case in point was sitting on a tombstone watching me get covered in dirt while he had a cocktail. Myrnin was a lunatic, he dressed funny, and he was as annoying as an ingrown toenail, but I’d seen him do kind things, and brave things, for no better reason than a real person lurked somewhere in that vampire body.
It just spoils the fun when you realize that your kill all monsters crusade actually includes real people as collateral damage.
“Are you resting?” Myrnin asked, then took a loud sip through his straw. “I don’t think I’m paying you to rest.”
“It’s hard work.”
“Not for a vampire.”
“I’m not a vampire.”